First Steps
by ThumperMiggles
Summary: "Mother always tells me that the first steps are the most difficult. But every dance has to start somewhere—without the courage to begin, there is no dance. And then what would there be to do during practice?"   Rimahiko, future/college AU. Six chapters.


[少し 留守にするわね 泣かないで  
>指切りしよう きっと逢えるわ]<p>

_I'll be gone a while, but don't cry  
>Let's make a pinky promise to certainly meet again<em>

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><p><strong><em>First Steps<em>**

**_Chapter One _**

The final time we spoke, it was evening. I don't remember what he'd started our first conversation with—all I can remember was trying to ignore him, despite his request to speak to me. I do remember the first sentence I'd really listened to, though—and I'd despised the clarity of his voice, the way his words were laced with sincerity. I hated lies, but I hated the truth from him. I hated to be alone, but the last person I wanted to be with was Fujisaki. He was bright, gentle, kind. I hated his kindness most out of everything about him, though. It reminded me of pity. Pity was just another lie.

"Mother always tells me that the first steps are the most difficult. But every dance has to start somewhere—without the courage to begin, there is no dance. And then what would there be to do during practice?" He'd twirled his fingers around his hair, a habit he seemed to have picked up when thinking, and taken a long breath before looking at me. "So perhaps before I lose my chance, I'll take my first steps today. Maybe we could be friends, Mashiro-chan?"

He wasn't going to charm me the way he'd managed to do to Amu. I wouldn't let him. I'd looked down to my tea, watching the unmoving leaves as if my life depended on it, concentrating on the deathly stillness. After all, I knew that if I looked up, I'd only be sucked in—I knew that he was smiling as he spoke. And his smile was dangerous, eye contact was dangerous. His eyes were too honest, there was a near guarantee that if I'd seen them, I'd believe him—and that was dangerous. I could hear that he'd taken my silence as a no—I heard the chair slide, and a controlled chuckle. A pensive resignation. I still didn't dare to raise my gaze just yet.

"Well, you're my friend," he'd said, the meditative lilt still touching his laughter. I could hear a touch of Nadeshiko in it, and my ears perked up. "Any friend of Amu-chan's is mine, even if I'm not yours." I released the breath that I was holding unconsciously. Was that why he'd said it? Of course it was why. I'd been stupid to think otherwise. What was I expecting?

"Don't call her Amu-chan. Her name's Hinamori-san to you," I'd said, fingers gripping the teacup. He was still laughing. I wanted to throw my teacup into his face, but I made do with crushing the teaspoon in my thumb and forefinger, hoping it would bend under the weight of my fingertips.

"Amu-san, then. Any friend of Amu-san's is mine." I can recall he'd collected his finished dish, placing it quietly in the sink. I can recall that he packed his schoolbag quietly, letting me wonder why I'd even stayed to listen to what he'd said. I can recall that for the strangest reason, I'd been disappointed when he'd shut the door of the greenhouse with nothing more than a whispering thud.

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><p>There was an impatient cough at the front of the lecture hall when the teacher finally got to the podium, shuffling his papers on wood. Chattering ceased, chairs scooted in to tables, rummaging for paper and pencils had finally stopped, save for a single girl still digging through her bag at the very last row. Calculus wasn't something she'd expected to take, especially not when studying the performing arts—in fact, this was the last class she'd thought she'd be taking when she'd finally entered university hoping to learn to entertain. She couldn't deny that passing the class was clearly a necessity, though.<p>

You could imagine her frustration at forgetting to bring a pencil.

There was silence in the classroom, except for the suddenly deafening velcro of her bag. Why was it that when everyone was quiet, opening the pockets of her school purse sounded like earthquakes? She wouldn't draw any further attention to herself—already, the professor was looking impatient, as if he wouldn't start the class until there was dead silence. It was hard to leave a good impression this way—there was no way she'd pass this class without puckering up a little bit. She sat in her chair, pretending she didn't notice when the screech of metal on floor echoed around the room, opening her notebook and sitting up straight, glaring at the blackboard, as if she were actually being attentive. The professor turned to the front as if satisfied, and began the class, his tiny voice barely reaching up to the last row—she had to strain her ears to pick up on his raspy blather. Her eyes searched the floor desperately, although her face remained looking straight ahead, austere and perfectly motionless.

No sign of any manner of writing utensil on the ground—the situation was grim. At this point, she'd be happy with a marker, a piece of charcoal from a careless art major, anything to write with at all—desperate times called for desperate measures. Her stoic expression betrayed her when she spotted a bright yellow No. 2 next to her—accompanied by a blank, open purple notebook, and an equally empty chair. Where had the owner gone?

She let her eyes scan the classroom again, and seeing nobody out of a seat, finally turned her head from the board to the graphite savior that had suddenly appeared before her. Her hand crept out slowly before silently sliding the pencil from its place next to her, gripping it in her hand, feeling a wash of relief over her. Who had to know that she'd taken it? There were plenty of identical No. 2 pencils out there. They were all the same. Her tablemate would never have to know it was her who'd filched it. And if otherwise… Well, she was charming, right?

Nobody would deny the begging gaze of a small defenseless girl. She always had that card on her side.

It wasn't until an hour later that she'd felt a subtle tap to her shoulder—she'd jumped, nearly falling from her chair. The screech that the legs made against tile when she caught herself from the tumble made the entire classroom turn. She collected herself, and continued taking notes like it hadn't been her until every head turned back to the blackboard before whipping her head over to her assailant. When had they gotten back? She hadn't even noticed their return!

No matter. She'd decided that she really, really didn't like the one who "lent" her their pencil already anyways, and looked up to tell them so. She almost toppled the chair again when her eyes met gold.

"You know," he whispered, leaning closer to her face so she could feel his breath tickling on her earlobe. She shied away, glaring and leaning to the left away from him. The first thing she'd learned about being an entertainer was that it was all about body language—and the thing she wanted to communicate to him right now was that she thought of him the same way she thought about festering dead corpses on the sidewalk. He only leaned closer, twirling a pencil in his right hand—and it looked exactly the same as the one she held, bright yellow and gently used. "It's not very nice to take other people's things without asking." She leaned away from him again, grabbing the pencil she had stolen and making a move to feign stab him in the thigh when he leaned even more to the left again, as if he were going to whisper something else into her ear—and she mirrored his movements, teetering away from him.

The noise that the chair made against the floor when she toppled out of it was very loud indeed.

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><p>"I'd really like my pencil back." That was the first thing he said to her after class ended—and that made her resent him even more. No apology. The nerve.<p>

"Your breath smells," was the only thing she could think of at the moment. She'd have to give herself a little time to think of a proper comeback. Anger wasn't something she was used to—it had been years since someone had successfully elicited anger from her, and even then had been an exception—it'd been_ him_, after all. She was too pissed to be witty right now anyway. "And I don't think you'll mind me taking this as payment for pushing me from my chair," she continued acridly, sending him her most potent stink eye. "Besides, how do you know it's yours?"

His smile was disarming, and Rima's brow furrowed. As if by instinct, she turned away, focusing only on packing her notebook into her bag, gripping the pencil in her hand. It was people like this she hated dealing with the most—this was the only valuable lesson she'd admit she learned from _him_. It was a miracle she even remembered _that guy_ so many years later, when so many faces were fading from her memory. Hatred was a strong emotion—and contrary to what she'd been taught, it lasted for much longer than she'd initially thought. Of all faces, his was one of the ones burned into her recollections without question. She despised it.

"Well, it's clearly mine," he replied smoothly, his voice floating in the stale classroom air. She suddenly realized that she wanted to punch him, even if his ugly face would break her knuckles.

…Ugly? That wasn't quite right.

…Womanly, maybe? He opened his mouth, continuing his irritating tirade "Have you looked below the eraser yet?" Rima blinked, taken off guard for a moment, raising the pencil to her eyes almost grudgingly. What exactly did he-

There was miniscule cursive scrawled into the paint.

_Property of Fujisaki Nagihiko_

Her grip had gotten stronger in the time that she hadn't seen him—not only could she bend spoons now, but… Her thumb pressed down on the pencil, turning her knuckles white—and the bright yellow wood splintered into two. "Here," she replied, holding out the broken halves. "Your pencil, Fujisaki." Had she not been so annoyed, she would have laughed at the way his eyebrows shot upward. He reminded her of a politely bewildered goldfish. The expression left in a flash though, and it was replaced by a knowing smirk, his hand reaching out to accept her kind gift. God, she hated him.

"If pushing you out of your chair is only worth a hundred and fifty yen, then I hope you won't mind if I do it again, Mashiro-chan." She hated herself right now too—she hated herself for being happy that he'd recognized her face.

* * *

><p>Over the course of the last week, she'd discovered a number of things. First—Nagihiko Fujisaki lived in her dormitory block, which was an unpleasant surprise, as he followed her back from class that first day (he continually insisted dryly that they lived in the same building when she'd questioned it). Second—Nagihiko Fujisaki held grudges, and he repaid her favor of snapping his pencil in half by pulling her chair out from behind her when she returned from the toilet on Wednesday. Third—Nagihiko Fujisaki had grown up to be an unbelievable bastard, which he proved by handing her a hundred and fifty yen after she'd fallen on the linoleum, and proceeded to ask her to "kindly let him patronize her again".<p>

She wasn't pleased to see him again, unlike most "childhood friends" were. Actually, it was the pure opposite—Rima scooted her chair as far left to the table as she could for the entirety of the following lectures, to the point where she was practically seated in the isle during the class. But for some reason, she hadn't moved tables yet.

It was a pain. It was too much work. The teacher would forget her name if she changed her seat. She'd trouble other people to trade. Nobody would trade with her anyways. It was too late to change seats. It was strange that all of these perfectly feasible explanations sounded like lies.

Perhaps it was for the notes—she would admit that Fujisaki was one of the sharper tools in the shed, even if he was the disgusting shovel used for cow manure. His hearing was good, at least—she didn't have to try and hear the teacher like this—she could just copy it off of him. And it felt good too, to use his work instead of having to do it herself. Less work was always a plus.

He was just a perfect slave, she told herself spitefully, pushing her hand into her cheek, elbow pressed to the surface in front of her. Rima looked over to the side to take down a few notes.

Rima copied the same thing into her notebook absently, focusing her glower listlessly on the perfect handwriting. He'd left his hair long. Even with broader shoulders, he still looked like a girl.

_Defining the derivative can be done in two different ways._

Her pencil scribbled onto the ruled paper quickly. But the eyes were the same. Creepy, honest, and flecked with what seemed to be the aftertaste of knowing something she didn't. God, she hated his eyes.

_The first is geometrical, "the slope of a curve", and the second is physical, "the rate of change"_

Scribble. His voice was annoying too. Sometimes, he'd lean over and whisper something into her ear. No matter what it was, she tried not to hear—it didn't go so well, given he was so close. The two-person tables were only five or so feet long, anyways. It always sounded like he was laughing, even if he was just telling her that her handwriting was messy, or that she was breathing too loudly, or that her high heels didn't suit a small person, or that-

_Rima-chan, your shirt is on backwards._

Rima started to copy the letters, but only the first three—her eyebrows shot downwards, and she put down her pencil—purposefully mechanical—she would kill herself if she had to ask him to borrow one if hers broke. "It is not," she hissed at him, erasing the "Rim" she had written irately—the paper crinkled under the pressure, tearing at the perforated edge an inch from the bottom. She swore inwardly.

_It is._

He gestured to the neckline of her shirt, cursed grin still slapped onto his face stupidly—like a plastic doll. "It is," he repeated, this time aloud, barely audible. She scribbled furiously into his notebook.

_My name is not "Mashiro-chan". Why're you looking there in the first place? Disgusting little_

He plucked the pencil from her hand, scrawling out an interruption in neat cursive. Rima narrowed her eyes scornfully.

_Hard not to look when the tag is hanging out, Mashiro-chan. 100% cotton, made in China, XS_

Nagihiko stopped writing for a moment, and his mouth curled up further. He picked the pencil off the paper, skipping a line.

_Six years, and you're still the size of a garden gnome._

That day, Rima discovered that it was the nicest feeling in the world to have the back of her supposedly "unsuitable" heel connect with his big toe.

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><p>It's been a really long time since I've written fanfiction-and I guess I figured on the plane was the perfect time to try and get back into it. Thanks to tsukinokimi for editing help ;u;!<p>

GOD I MISSED THIS PAIRING. Hopefully I'll get to writing the next chapter 8'D

Also, there are probably a couple grammatical/syntax errors in there somewhere. If you catch one, I'd love to know-I have yet to find a beta, so COUGHCOUGHCOUGH


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